


Next To

by BrosleCub12



Series: The Hardest Place [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Best Friends, Gen, Grief, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Shopping, They Act Like Children, human-Twelve, particularly Twelve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5756701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Suddenly, there are a lot of swear words percolating around his head.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next To

**Author's Note:**

> Happy new year! Welcome to the third story of the series, written as a rather tearful response to Face the Raven and tied into this series.  
> Once again, huge thanks to my lovely beta-reader Rachelindeed, who most graciously agreed to beta this just before the Christmas break; my timing could have been better, but she slotted it in anyway amid her Christmas activities, for which I am most grateful. Thankyou so much, fantastic proof-reader and friend. :)

*

He wakes up on Saturday morning, rain banging down on the roof and Clara Oswald is curled up next to him, on the bed.

Ah.

He lies on his back, plays with his hands, stares at the ceiling. Just takes a minute and takes a breath, listens to the wet drumming over their heads. Huh, well. Clara shifts beside him and one of his arms is trapped – trapped by the arm that she had flung over his torso some point during the night.

Suddenly, there are a _lot_ of swear words percolating around his head.

They’d fallen asleep, he realises now, they’d dozed off on top of the blankets last night, on the duvet. Side by side. They’re still – oh, for Pete’s sake, he realises as he looks down, they’re still in their work-clothes from yesterday. She’s still in her teacher gear, her skirt and blouse, with only her shoes kicked off; he’s got his comfortable holey jumper that he wears just for the sheer pleasure of irritating the posh, spoiled students in his lectures who turn up their noses at his ensemble – he’s still the one helping them get degrees, he’ll wear whatever the hell he likes. It’s early; it’s December and the heating’s switched itself off. He needs to turn it back on.

The bed is warm though. The duvet is soft and secure beneath his back and there’s a kind of easy, almost indulgent heat radiating from Clara on his left side.

And. He’s on the wall side of the bed. Clara’s bed.

Bloody hell.

*

‘Clara?’ he tries – whispers the words to her. ‘Clara? You awake?’

Yeah, right. She did a fourteen-hour day yesterday, like hell that’s going to work. Why doesn’t he try tap-dancing out a spell to make water gush from the bedposts, while he’s at it?

Maybe he could climb out of the window. If he were to push Clara off the bed first without waking her so he can use the duvet as a rope and – oh, bloody hell, no.

How the hell did he get himself into this mess at all? Has he had a triple brain bypass, or something? Is he just stupid?

At least there’s nothing… they’re _clothed,_ he reminds himself. They’re not… nothing like that. No way, and he takes a breath.  Worst things have happened. They still have the X-Factor on telly. That book about lots of different shades of grey – _not_ about decorating, as it turned out – was made into a film. Not all his favourite characters in Harry Potter managed to survive the Battle of Hogwarts. The world didn’t end then and it won’t end now. It’s fine.

He tries giving her a little shake, instead. Only a little one; she came home well and truly exhausted, last night. She’s been exhausted every night this week.

So has he, truth be told. Still. That’s no excuse.

What’s wrong with him? Really, what’s wrong with him? How does he… how could he allow himself to get into this and then not get out like any sane person should, why? Well, he’s not a sane person, actually, is he? He can’t be – and he’s not, according to many people he knows, anyway, so –

‘Hello,’ Clara’s voice is quiet and hushed, so hushed that he almost doesn’t hear it, caught up as he is in his mental doldrums, and then when he registers the sound, it’s startling; he does a double take, sees her open eyes blinking sleepily up at him.

‘… Hello,’ John replies, in a bid to buy himself time here. It’s a bit of an embarrassing situation, all things considered. Clara hums again, long and low and shifts against him.

Don’t panic, John thinks to himself. Stay still and just… don’t panic. Any other time, he would laugh: _the Clara creature is settled in her natural habitat of consistently-clean sheets and various sets of boots for different occasions. One wrong movement and she will shriek, shrill and wild and probably slap you. Tread with care._

It’s not even that he’s scared of this, of Clara – not even when she loses her temper, of course not, that’d be stupid (jumping up on top of the wardrobe that one time to avoid her wooden spoon when he made the mistake of criticising her soufflé was merely to check the wardrobe was still sturdy; he just chose a good time to test it). He’s just not sure how he’s going to explain _this._ _Hello, we must have been sleepwalking. Hello, we’ve obviously been invaded by aliens who put us in this position out of some mistaken perception of what sleeping involves. Hello, I’m completely and utterly mortified and I might possibly just flee to France in the next five minutes. I’ll send you some snails, perhaps you can put them in your next soufflé. Experimentation is everything._

‘We should get up and get ready for work,’ he says. Yes, that’s good. Good way to start. Clara opens her eyes again – or one of them, eyes him oddly.

‘It’s Saturday,’ she says, slowly and carefully as though addressing a child, the way she addresses all the children in her care. John blinks. Of course it is.

‘Well, we have to go shopping,’ he tries again. ‘We need more. We need more lotion.’ And then he wonders if there’s a crater somewhere in the universe that’s been left open for him with a well-deserved bear-trap lining the bottom. Probably built by his ex-wife, he thinks ruefully; it’s the kind of thing River would do just for kicks.

Clara props her head up on hand, elbow on the pillow, stares at him. ‘You went shopping on Wednesday.’ Oh right, yeah. ‘When I came home sneezing everywhere? You went to get me coffee and you ended up bringing me back chips, loo-roll, Rice Crispies and, oh, yeah, about half a ton of Nescafe.’ She gives him a whack – albeit a light one – in the shoulder.

‘You said you wanted a new type! And yes, you’re right, I did, because it’s winter and carbohydrates are good for the body.’ He makes his ‘it’s magic’ expression, all raised eyebrows and spread hands, as spread as they can be when they’re lying together on top of a duvet, anyway. Which actually rather brings them back to the current problem. Shame, their lively banter, so familiar, comforting (and usually he hates banter so that’s saying something) had almost made him forget.

Clara, though, appears blind to the problem: she just smiles, suddenly and shoves her head into the pillow for a moment, gives him a look, but with a smile attached – one of her amused, sweet smiles that probably makes quite a few men her own age want to date her/pursue her/marry her/wrestle a crocodile to impress her/throw themselves into a lake if they humiliate themselves in front of her, whatever the courting rituals are these days, and so on and so forth – and then her hand is touching his arm, her fingers curling around and John thinks _Right._

‘Okay, well, I’ll get you coffee,’ he says, jumping up, dislodging the arm and standing on the bed, just avoiding cracking his head on the ceiling, because that’s a good excuse, yeah? Coffee is good, coffee can do anything, coffee can help you save the universe, even or that’s what he tells his students when they’re panicking about deadlines. It’s strange to stand after lying down in the warm for so long and he feels a bit dizzy, disjointed still, from standing up, from dragging himself from the comfort of the bed, but still. Got to be done.

Clara makes a sound – a kind of… appreciative hum at the offer, before she suddenly gets to her feet as well and just like that, they’re both standing on her bed, in their clothes from the night before and he feels the back of his neck prickle. This is not ordinary, he thinks, as her hands come up and she squeezes his shoulders, smiles at him.

‘Why don’t I make us some breakfast?’ she suggests. And then she stretches up and kisses his cheek; before John can say another word, she’s jumped off the bed and taken off downstairs, leaving him standing on high, in her room, with its dressing-table and stuffed penguins and recipe books, photos of her parents on display in a frame. The young eyes of her father and mother, watching this strange old Scotsman who’s just spent the night sleeping on top of their only daughter’s bed, beside their daughter.

 _Sorry,_ he thinks at them. Then he climbs off the bed and follows Clara down to the kitchen.

*

‘Are you alright?’ he asks a few minutes later; Clara is humming to the radio, as she fries bacon. She looks rumpled and creased and still a bit sleepy, but she glances up at the question and nods brightly, with the casual look of the okay.

‘Yeah, very. Make us that coffee, will you?’ She indicates the kettle with a slight grin and a nod of the head, so he shuts up and does what he’s told, puts the water onto boil.

‘So,’ he says after a beat; _act natural._ Clara seems to be doing it, so he’ll do it as well. ‘Saturday. What are you going to do today?’

‘Well, got some stuff to do,’ she tells him, ‘but I thought maybe we could check out the Christmas markets? See if there’s some haggis for Hogmanay.’ She grins at him as he puts the coffee down on the side beside her, takes a sip as she pats his arm. ‘Butter us some rolls, yeah?’

Why is she smiling so much, he wonders as he digs a knife into the Flora, spreads it over the soft white rolls. What possible reason could she have for being so _happy?_ And why exactly does she want to go to the Christmas market with _him_ of all people, is she insane? He’s the most… Scroogiest Scrooge anyone could have the unpleasant misfortune to meet. Put him and that Sherlock Cumberbatch chappy in the same Christmas store and Mr. Holmes would be seen as the festive flyer, compared to him.

‘Have to shower first though,’ Clara is saying over her shoulder, before she brings the bacon over and tips it onto the plate. ‘But you know, even though we slept in our clothes last night that’s probably the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time.’

John snaps.

‘Okay,’ he’s up from his chair and starts moving around the kitchen. ‘Okay, so I know that I said, I said I’m not your boyfriend and I’m not, I’m _not.’_ He holds up his index finger at her – he’s _not_ – before he clasps his hands together, doesn’t know what else to do. She’s making him so nervous. Normally she makes him smile – even when they’re not looking at each other, but she’ll do something or say something Clara-like, she’ll come home drunk and fall over everything and he has to purse his lips to stop a stupid grin from escaping from his stupid, traitorous mouth – but today she’s just making him nervous.

‘What?’ Clara blinks at him, moving around the kitchen, around her. ‘I never - woah, woah. John. _Doctor,’_ she says the nickname - his title - firmly, like ice, almost and it stops him in his tracks. ‘What’s the matter?’

He swallows, fumbles for his coffee as he makes himself sit back down, feeling shaken. She’s half his age and half his height and she’s shaken him. He sips his coffee for a long moment, drums his fingers on the table – before realising how much of a giveaway that is and bringing them back together again. Clara stares at him, completely uncomprehending, her stupidly big, stupidly lovely eyes furrowed under her brow.

It’s possible he may have just made things even more awkward. But then, he’s good at that. _Stick to your strengths, Doctor John._

‘I shouldn’t have stayed in your room,’ is what he says in the end. ‘I should’ve just… sat with you and then gone. I’m sorry.’ He makes himself look at her then, won’t be a coward about it. ‘Sorry, Clara.’

She stares at him, pupils moving in their sockets. ‘… Diiiid I do something that made you uncomfortable?’

He shakes his head, waves his arms around in the way he does whenever he’s panicking (like now, for instance) ‘Oh, no, no, not like – nothing like that. Just… you were. Upset.’ He shrugs, smiles nervously, showing too many teeth before telling himself sternly to rein it in as he rubs his hands together in front of his chest.

And Clara must notice, because she puts her head to the side, observes him in that way he’s not sure he knows he feels about. Then, she drags the other chair around, sits down next to him with her own roll in hand.

‘Talk to me,’ she says finally. ‘Did I…?’ she pauses, takes a sip of her own coffee before nodding, almost to herself and looking up at him, something in her face familiar: guilt? ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel weird.’ It’s said with a slight question behind the tone; she’s not sure and he turns in his seat.

‘No, you didn’t,’ he shakes his head, and both his hands at her. ‘I’ve already told you that, you haven’t, you don’t. I don’t _mind_. I just. I just need to not do _that.’_ He points at the ceiling, a vicious jab, angry with himself.

That being what he did the night before. That being to lie down on Clara’s bed with her and letting her hold on to him for a little while longer than he should have done; letting her bury her face in his side. Even if she had asked; even if he had agreed.

But one thing remains: he should _never_ have fallen asleep next to her.

*

She reaches up and touches his face and he starts violently. No, he thinks. No, I won’t do this. I can’t do this, I can’t be like some other men, like the fathers of some of my students, the students who come in gnashing their teeth after comforting their crying mothers. Never mind the fact that he’s divorced, never mind that it’s been a long time since he and River last spoke. Never mind that he’s not… he wouldn’t – he can’t do this. He can’t be that man; he mustn’t be.

‘Are you worried?’ Clara’s smoother, younger face – still kind, despite all she’s been through – is a stark contrast to his own wrinkles and is caught between concern and confusion. ‘Doctor,’ she says it gently, ‘you didn’t do anything wrong.’

He eyes her; wonders about that statement; his pupils fall away. He’s back to not being able to look at her in the eye.

‘Daft old man,’ Clara’s voice is strangely low and thoughtful. ‘Do you really think I wouldn’t have asked you to do that last night if I didn’t feel comfortable? If I didn’t feel comfortable with _you?’_ She adds that last part as though it’s some kind of amendment and he doesn’t know what to say.

So instead, he takes Clara’s hand down from his face; gives it back to her. _Duty of care,_ he reminds himself.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters – and usually he hates repeating himself and he chides himself for that, looking down at their hands, rather than at her. _Sorry you’re living with a messed up old man. Sorry that you were so upset last night. Sorry I’m your only immediate option for comfort._

‘Hey,’ Clara says shortly and he looks up at her, realising too late how his heavy eyebrows have furrowed. It must look a bit disconcerting – sometimes he catches himself off-guard when he looks in the mirror – so he tries to relax. He does it badly, judging by the look on Clara’s face.

‘Don’t,’ she gives the smallest, slight shake of the head. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t even try.’ She holds up an index finger at him, her voice rising. ‘I am not going to spend a minute of my time today drilling it into your quite frankly over-protective psyche that you did nothing wrong when it’s perfectly obvious, come on, that you didn’t!’

She stands then, oddly violent in the way she rises; sweeps her arm, dramatically, indicates herself, _look at me, I’m okay_ and moves to grab at her coffee, takes a long sip, as though seeking sustenance.

‘I want to have a good day today, okay?’ She puts the coffee back, tilts her chin up, defiant, and he blinks up at her and he stares at her, because he understand that what she’s saying is: _We’ve just had a whole week of bad days. Please, don’t do this to me today._

‘Okay,’ the word sounds creaky, even through his teeth.

Still, though… _Over-protective psyche…? Really?_

Clara nods and sits back down and they sit and eat their breakfast in perfect silence, a lack of sound so fitting for early on a Saturday morning. They’re up ahead of many of their noisy neighbours; there’s no banging on the walls from the people next door, no arguments, no dogs barking. Even in a house like this, which John chose for the purposes of being away from most people – letting Clara in was one of the few exceptions to the rule, because she needed a place to stay that wouldn’t remind her of Danny Pink – the rest of humanity still manages to bleed in, here and there. He doesn’t mind that really. Other people aren’t too terrible, they’re just. Overwhelming, sometimes. Clara is a bit of a bridge, in that respect.

He’s brought out of his thoughts rather abruptly when Clara slams both hands on the table and sits back in her chair, tips her head backwards to stare at the ceiling before she angles it to give John a look. Something in her face – the set of her eyes, the crumple of her mouth – seems to say _I can hear you thinking from here, please stop it._ She brings her chair back in and regards him; when she speaks, her voice is quiet, contemplative, at ease.

‘Are you going to come to the Christmas market with me or not?’ she asks and he takes another sip of his coffee before he replies.

He’s not sure how to answer; the alternative is apparently offering up the faintest smile he can offer before he stands and sags back against the fridge.

‘Doctor,’ Clara groans, drawing it out so it sounds more like _Doctoooooor_ and he stares at her, feeling slightly helpless.

‘Clara, you could have… done… _that,’_ it’s the only way he knows how to say it, because he can’t bring himself to say the word cuddle, or hugging for that matter, and the guilt blooms in his stomach once more, ‘with any man you wanted. Any man your own age.’ He says it pointedly; makes himself look her in the eye when he says it – and there it is, out there. He’s said it. Clara, for her part, puts her head to the side and just… looks at him, for a moment. He’s not sure he likes it.

‘Well. Well, yeah. But then, any other man is _not_ my best friend.’ She comes and stands next to him, puts her head against the fridge door, against the magnets they keep up there when they’re sick of talking and squabble in letter form instead – yesterday’s contributions spell out things like _i heart austen_ and _photons are better_ and _nope_ and _ill tell them you said that._ ‘Look, far be it from me to make you feel embarrassed and I’m sorry for that,’ she adds with some haste, ‘I’m sorry, because it’s got you in a state, clearly.’ She inspects him out of narrowed eyes. ‘But I know I can trust you to just stay with me. That’s why I asked.’

 _And that’s why I went,_ John thinks. It was why he had done what he had done, when Clara had asked because she had looked worn to the bone, ready to drop, ready to _snap_ and he knew – he knows – what it is to get to that point. He knows how to make people cry; he doesn’t know how to make them stop, that’s the problem and so he had done the only thing he could do. He thinks on his feet often, and sometimes, badly.

He hadn’t even opened his arms; he had just let Clara walk into him. And then he had ended up walking her upstairs so she could be in safe, familiar surroundings, _sleep, Clara, you need to sleep._ Sleep always made things better, didn’t it, and it had been all he could think of; if Clara slept, she would feel better, her head would quieten.

And then he had ended up lying down with her because she had asked him to and she had wrapped her arms around him as though he was the closest thing she could cling onto.

(‘Stay,’ she had mumbled against him, mumbled into his jumper, hiding her face from him and an arm had crept across his torso.

For a while, he had thought. _I’ll stay, for a while._ And it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Just a while.

That had been at 1am. And the recently-cleaned sheets had been soft beneath his back and the room had been the right kind of hot and he was a stupid old man who had got too comfortable in the five more minutes he had given himself until Clara had calmed down).

 ‘And anyway, I can’t just go up to a bloke in a bar or a shop and ask _him_ to come home and cuddle,’ Clara adds then, with good humour and John cocks his head to the side.

‘Well, how do you know? It’s a good offer and he might get free tea out of it, if you put the kettle on. Maybe if you try the library,’ he adds, helpfully.

The laugh he surprises out of Clara is rewarding and it goes a little way to helping him feel better; in fact it makes him smile a bit in return as they look at each other and it’s one of those moments that people share, one of those _hello-how-are-you_ things that comes with simply having a friend.

‘If we get showered and dressed, we can get to the market by 11,’ Clara says, sounding suspiciously hopeful and he shrugs, nods, supposes that that’s his Saturday taken, feeling something in his stomach ease, loosen. He can’t cause much trouble in a market, anyway.

*

The rain has lessened by the time they reach the market, but not ceased, and it fends off most of the crowds, but it doesn’t stop a food-fight from beginning, of which John is inevitably the catalyst and he ends up having to be tugged away from the threat of both an arrow to the backside and a mince-pie in the face, Clara grabbing his hand and running with him to the other end, splashing through growing puddles and laughing all the way.  

(Hand-holding – that’s something else they do, that they’ve been doing. That’s okay, he doesn’t mind that; just, Clara got into this habit of doing it a while ago, for whatever reason, he’s not sure when, when they were watching a scary film or when she was waiting for the results of an Ofsted report or the one occasion when one of her Year 7 pupils had had to be rushed to the hospital after collapsing and she had come to John’s office to sit with him, mobile phone in one hand, the other in one of his, waiting for news.

It didn’t do anyone any harm and it seemed to help her, so he let her get on with it. He’s not sure why and it was a bit odd for a while, but).

‘That was not _my_ fault!’ John protests as she howls with laughter, pulling him under the relative shade of the mulled wine stall. ‘That stupid Robin Hood impersonator, whatever the hell he is…!’

Clara just shakes her head at him, pushing wet hair off her face before tucking her arm through his. She looks happy, chilled – as in, relaxed-chilled, not just damp-chilled, see, he knows the lingo of today – and he’s fairly sure they both have marking to do, but this. This will do.

The Christmas market is a cheerful cacophony of trees and music and baubles and determined but damp stall-traders, huddling together under the roofs of their stalls. It’s actually not that bad – maybe it’s the rain, John reflects. It makes it less crowded and less chirpy. It’s more up his street, that way - literally.

He buys a cheap brolly and he holds it over them both as they peruse the various trades for a while, look at the jewellery and books and other such things. One stall sells brownies; Clara buys one – complete with chocolate sauce and whipped cream, but gets two forks and then they try and share it as fast as they can, John awkwardly balancing the umbrella over them as Clara holds the box, the rain dripping not too appealingly over them onto the concrete.

Then they get tired of the rain altogether and go to have tea and dry off in the café in Waterstones instead. John watches over the rim of his brew as the man behind the café-till shyly brings Clara the last slice of raspberry and almond sponge – that week’s shining example from the recipe books on sale – on the sly, wrapped up in cling-film. It makes Clara’s cheeks pinken in sheepish gratitude as she glances up at him; John, in an attempt to be polite and sociable, throws a quick grin the man’s way, which seems to cause him to scuttle back behind the counter rather quickly for some reason.

‘You could ask _him,’_ John tries and Clara kicks him under the table, her face doing that funny thing where she looks torn over whether she wants to laugh or just murder him with knives and secrets the sponge away in her bag. John smirks into his copy of the Metro, takes in the Rush Hour Crush section; he needs a good laugh.

‘Are we alright?’ Clara asks after a few minutes. John swallows hard, staring down at the rather creepy message addressed to Buxom Book Babe, from Elvis Lookalike, before he shuts the paper and looks up. They eye each other across the table.

‘Are _you_ alright?’ he boomerangs and she raises her eyebrows at him over her cup, surveying him with interest. He really wishes she wouldn’t do that; it’s most disconcerting. Then she does the whole thing where she leans forwards with her hands clasped in front of her, looking him up and down. _It’s about to get real, kids,_ he thinks, grimly.

‘You know when… in the mornings, when we’re both rushing around and getting ready for work and fighting over the bathroom?’

‘…Yeah?’ Those are interesting mornings. They fight, they bicker, they say _no, I want the bathroom first, how long do you need to wash your hair every day, I **don’t** wash my hair every day, it smells of apples all the time, that’s the shampoo you idiot and where the hell is my toothbrush anyway etc etc etc._ A pair of lively otters. Though what this has to do with anything…

‘Well – every day I go out to have a shower and sometimes when my gown’s in the wash, I only come out with a towel around me, don’t I?’ Clara leans forward as she recites her morning routine, as though she’s confiding some sort of secret and John shifts uncomfortably. Towels? What do towels have to do with anything? Well – they are quite useful, according to the late and great legend that is Douglas Adams; towels _do_ have their uses, after all (and John will put his hands up and say he’s taken some of those imaginative suggestions and applied them in his own life). And maybe he should see if there’s one of those _Dirk Gently_ novels in here as a Christmas present to himself, he keeps meaning to read them and doesn’t, maybe he should do that –

‘And if we happen to meet in the hallway,’ Clara raises an eyebrow at him and he strongly suspects he might be saying some of these babbling thoughts out loud, which is why she’s doing that at all, ‘you never let _those,’_ she raises two fingers, gestures at his eyes, ‘drop. You always keep them _here.’_ She brings the hand back, gestures to her own face. ‘And then we get on with it. You chat and you say something stupid and you _never_ let your eyes drop.’ She tilts her face to the side and she’s smiling at him, smiling her stupidly beautiful, stupidly _brilliant_ smile. ‘Have you any idea how _safe_ that makes me feel?’

John blinks. Then he blinks again.

He really has no idea what to say to that.

‘Oh,’ he manages. Takes a sip of tea. Puts it back down again; opens his mouth to speak. Shakes himself, and then takes another sip of tea. A _long_ sip of tea.

This whole rigmarole carries on for a good few minutes before Clara takes pity on him and takes the cup away from him.

‘I mean it,’ she says; she sounds insistent about it and she’s leaning forward in earnest. ‘You do, I – I feel safe with you, Doctor.’ It’s so… sweet, the way she says it, the quiet hitch of the word; sure, it’s his common nickname and he doesn’t mind people using it. Clara, well. Clara. Clara, Clara, Clara.

He would never… he could _never_ hurt Clara, not in a million years – or, more specifically, the maybe thirty-odd years he still has on this earth, if he’s supremely lucky and very careful (ha) and if he doesn’t piss anyone else off first who happens to be really, really dangerous. Besides his ex-wife, that is. He’s no immortal and he’s no young man. But he has lived and not all of his time has been good.

(He tries. He does. He tries for Clara).

Clara reaches out then and pats his hand.

‘Do you really think you’re capable of being something you’re obviously not?’ she asks him and he pauses; shrugs at her.

‘Be more specific?’ he tries and she whacks him, albeit half-heartedly. Well, then. ‘You’re fine, though?’ The question is gruffer than he intended, but she seems to understand what he means and she gives a shrug, dips her head to the side, a physical example of that famous word known as: ‘Mmm-yeah.’

‘Better, since last night,’ is what she chooses to say and John parses that. Well. Okay then. Okay. Okay.

And, with that, with the tea drunk and the cake eaten, they go and make a nuisance of themselves in the bookshop.

‘We’re supposed to be buying Christmas presents,’ Clara hisses over the shelves a few minutes later. John pops his head up from where he’s been re-reading _A Bear Called Paddington_ (makes a mental note to look up Michael Bond soon, he’s always been a laugh).

‘It’s Saturday. We’re messing around in a bookshop. This _is_ Christmas.’ He gives her a strange look before returning to read about the exploits of Paddington at the theatre. ‘Oh, I love this part,’ he beams at Clara, showing her the page and Clara ducks her head to the floor, tongue firmly in cheek. ‘Anyway, we’re in self-help, this is a good start. Get your wicked stepmother a manual on how to smile a bit more.’

He throws one of his toothy grins in Clara’s direction before heading to the till with the Paddington book in hand. ‘And check out some of the _buy one get one half price_ bargains while you’re there, I need a dummies’ manual on how not to traumatise my students.’

‘Another one?’ Clara asks his back; he turns and shrugs at her. His other one is in tatters.

It’s a good day and he doesn’t realise this until halfway through the afternoon – after they’re politely asked to leave Waterstones following a few minutes of chasing each other around the shelves during a _Discworld_ verses _Wuthering Heights_ debate; and after Clara finally tracks down the haggis and samples some with a wrinkled nose on a dare. John ends up feeling so sorry for her as she struggles to keep it down that he buys her another brownie.

(‘How much cake have we had today?’ Clara asks at one point.

‘Loads,’ John replies promptly and samples another spoonful).

At some point in the afternoon, Clara loops her arm around his as they wander along, the rain holding off long enough for them to just have a stroll. It’s still very windy; they keep buffeting into each other on a particularly strong gust but Clara holds onto John tight and he lets her anchor him while she carries the bag full of books they purchased in her other hand. They’ve got lots to wrap.

‘Not sure how I’m feeling about Christmas this year,’ she says at one point and John glances down at her.

‘Oh, aye?’

That makes Clara laugh anew, but with something a little hollow behind it. _‘Aye,’_ she replies in kind and John rolls his eyes at himself. It’s rare that he ever falls back on his old country lingo; it’s what travelling around has done to him, he supposes.

 _‘Yes?’_ he says, extremely pointedly; Clara stops to inspect a stall selling cheeses.

‘Yeah,’ she says, all humour gone now as she pushes her hair off her face. ‘I mean. Is that weird? I’ve always loved Christmas, but I’m just…yeah, that one please,’ she adds to the seller, pointing at the cheddar. ‘Goes nicely with red wine,’ she adds with a wry grin over her shoulder at John and he gives her a look.

‘Planning on drinking your way through it?’ A pause and then he asks, ‘That’s a tremendous idea, actually, can I join you?’

‘Shush,’ Clara smiles, taking her change and the wrapped up cheese before they move on. ‘And yes, if you’re good,’ she adds with a raised eyebrow, a challenge.

John snorts; _pfft._ ‘Well, that’s that, then,’ he pretends to write on his hand with his finger. ‘Dear Father Christmas – you fictionalized, greedy house-breaker who ate all my biscuits and drank all the sherry –’ Clara laughs, the sound like a full, trickling well and he lets it spur him on, ‘I think the last time I was your definition of the word ‘good’ was in 1993 when I donated ten pounds to the Salvation Army.’ He stops and drops a quid into a charity bucket being held out by a hopeful volunteer braving the elements before continuing. ‘I think, with me, the big guy is just going to have to take what he can get.’ He spreads his arms wide as he spins on the spot and Clara is giggling the sound wonderfully loud, before she heads towards him and he lets her reclaim his arm before he’s really thought about it, watches as her smile shrinks and becomes more pensive.

‘Nah,’ she shrugs. ‘Just… Dad and Linda might be busy and it’s just my Gran, really and, well. Not sure how it’s gonna go.’ She unhooks their arms, then, folds hers instead; John reaches out and takes the books from her, watching her survey the market with thoughtful eyes.

‘It’s about this time of the year when Mum was diagnosed. So…’ She shrugs, that kind of ‘what you gonna do?’ about it that evolves from grief. It’s been over ten years since Eleanor Allison Oswald departed this world and just one since Danny Pink did the same, the very epitome of the phrase _Gone too soon,_ while old men like John still clank around and cause trouble.

(It’s Danny, as well. It’s all of that, but it’s also Danny. It’s just still too. Too _something)._

‘Think you could make any of your Mum’s seasonal desserts?’ It’s the safest bet for conversation as he randomly picks up a satsuma from a fruit-stall and tosses it in the air, catching it in his hand. ‘Not soufflé,’ he adds belatedly, because the kitchen is full of the memories of chaos and Clara narrows her eyes: a challenge.

‘You’re paying,’ she adds, pushing past him to get to the fruit. ‘Oh, and I want marzipan. And eggs.’

*

They end up curled up back home in front of the fire with their various happy pursuits. Clara is taking a break from marking thirty essays on _Pride and Prejudice_ by reading _Sense and Sensibility_ instead and John is trying his hand at cross-stitch (and failing dismally), the expensive _Calvin and Hobbes_ annual he brought just to pacify the agitated Waterstones staff lying open on his lap. He’s got marking too, but. Not just yet.

All his days with Clara are good days – he likes having her around, after all, or he wouldn’t have let her move in with him – but days like this are especially good. Relaxing and just… being, as the mindfulness phrase goes. A small adventure in itself, outside their everyday lives of helping young, silly people navigate the harder ten years of growing up. Away – if not free from the memory of – the old school friends, the ex-wives, and the lost.

He eyes Clara over his glasses, pushing them up his nose; she’s completely absorbed. Some of his counterparts in the English department at the University complain about the students who whine about Austen and the flowery language and the fuss that’s made over bits of jewellery and _seriously, it’s actually legal to marry your cousin?_ Clara, though, appreciates the words and the story for what it is. Just as she appreciates the silly old man she lives with, even if they bicker as much as they do.

She didn’t mind him lying beside her in the night. He frightens most people off, he could be the stuff of nightmares if he flattered himself enough, but. Clara had asked him – _no, would you mind, would you mind not going, her voice hoarse and scraping as she had reached out to grasp his jacket, just for a bit, please –_ and she hadn’t minded.

He still shouldn’t have fallen asleep. But then, she hadn’t seemed to mind that, either. And she says she trusts him.

He doesn’t want to be like other men he’s met. He’s not sure exactly what some of that entails sometimes, because other men – other people – just seem strange to him, but he knows; well. He’s seen, and he won’t be that. He has a duty of care and so he won’t be that.

But then, he has the good days with his younger best friend, half his age, half his height and twice the ferocity, especially when she’s chasing him around shelves and whacking him over the head with the Bronte sister’s books to try and prove a point. Then she just wraps her arms around him from behind as she determinedly claims a hug; always steadfastly ignoring his wailing that he is _against the hugging_ (which is just hypocritical at this point, but still – the principle remains the same!)

And with him, well, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

So. There’s. There’s that.

*

He’s making coffee for them both in the kitchen – an excuse for getting a plaster after the cross-stitch proved slightly lethal to his fingers – when she brings their previously-used mugs in, dumps them in the sink, turns to look at him.

‘So,’ she says.

‘I can’t, apparently,’ he tells her, over the first-aid kit; holds up his bleeding finger courtesy of clumsiness with the needle. ‘Haha,’ he adds, needlessly. Clara just rolls her eyes, albeit with a quirk of the mouth, even as she folds her arms and regards him.   

‘I enjoyed today,’ she tells him. ‘Just. Thanks. It was. Just what I needed, actually.’

He eyes her, gravely, almost forgetting the plaster until Clara steps forward, takes over. John huffs, he’s perfectly capable, but then his finger _is_ oozing blood over his skin right now, so... Clara pulls open an antiseptic wipe, dabs his finger with it and then opens a small plaster, gestures him forward so she can cover the slight bleed. He watches her for a moment, watches her smaller, delicate hands, the work of a teacher, cleaning up the drama-queens that are students, _oh miss, I have a slight headache, oh miss, I sneezed, oh miss, I’m allergic to this novel, can I go home now?_

She looks up at him then, as though sensing what he’s thinking and then she does it again; she raises her hand and presses it to his cheek for the second time today. He eyes her, feeling a little less tense this time, feeling okay; relaxes under her fingers.

Then, for the second time today, he takes her hand away: this time, holds it between both of his own, raises it to his lips and very, very carefully kisses the knuckles.

(He’s never sure how to tell someone – tell Clara – that he can do his best to look out for them and do right by them – and he has often failed before. He doesn’t know how to ask them to stay. But he _tries._ He keeps trying, for Clara and other people who are as good as Clara). 

 _Stay,_ he thinks, briefly and fleeting, selfishly. Not forever or anything, he can’t expect that and no-one lives that long, anyway. And he has to respect Clara; has a duty of care to Clara, has to know when to let her go. Some day, she will be gone; she’ll have moved on. And that’s okay, really. 

‘If it’s okay with you,’ Clara says then, who is noticeably _not_ tugging her hand away, ‘I might ask you again some time.’ She gestures towards the stairs with her head, to the ceiling above them where her room is. Her eyes are soft on his face; softer than he deserves.

 _You could do so much better._ John doesn’t know if he winds up saying it out loud or something, again, the inevitable letting the thought out between your lips without realising but. Maybe that’s not too important. But Clara is. _Very_ important.

‘Alright,’ is what he chooses to say, carefully, in the end; his accent, the words, feel almost gravelled, even on his own tongue. ‘If you ask me to, then. I’ll stay.’

And the smile she gives him at that – pleased and perhaps mirroring the odd relief that he feels – is enough to loosen that slight knot in his stomach, the one that had started to come back again in the last few minutes because the subject had come back around. But really, distraction in the form of cake and books has made his stomach, his brain – the whole of his insides, if he’s honest – feel a lot less that kind of  _half-roller-coaster-half-insane-mutant-butterfly-with-massive-wings_ that he woke up to this morning and well. Well.

Clara steps forward, raises her arms and John opens his own in turn; lets her in.

 *


End file.
